


Snuff Not the Light

by Caelanmiriel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt is Soff, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Some descriptions of blood and the like but, based on art, its not too graphic, its okay Geralt you can say you love him, just in case, nobody dies don't worry, pre-ship because they're dancing around each other like the idiots we all know they are, rated mature for naughty words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22924603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caelanmiriel/pseuds/Caelanmiriel
Summary: He sees the lute first. Would recognise it anywhere, that beautiful, infernal thing. Knows all of its quirks and scars; the chips from the crossfire at the banquet, the scent of the catgut strings, the delicate wildflower carvings from boring winter nights around a campfire, hands steady and tongue sticking out in concentration. There’s a sword lodged in it, now, just above the sound hole – a little below it, an arrow. A fair chunk is missing from the side, an ugly splintered hole. It was used to defend by hands not made for fighting, never for fighting.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 45
Kudos: 1070





	Snuff Not the Light

Geralt can smell the blood from a half mile away.

It is, at least, not a huge amount of blood – he won’t be stumbling across a blood soaked Velen battlefield, which is always a bonus to his morning. If he had to take a guess - and he’s good at this, has been following the scent of blood for more than half a century, can pick up the smell of anything more than a split lip without even trying - he’d say maybe eight bodies, perhaps ten. A caravan of merchants, probably. Attacked along their journey. Could be beasts, could be bandits. Either way, when he reaches a fork in the road he nudges Roach on a new course towards the slaughter.

He was wrong about the number of bodies. There are, in fact, only five; four soldiers in Redanian livery and a man who was clearly being escorted, since Geralt sees no fifth set of armour glinting in the low morning sun. But it was the amount of blood that threw him off. These men did not die quickly but bled slowly, the land around them saturated. Roach makes a fuss the closer he gets, unsettled by the blood, so he leaves her some distance away with a patch of celandine to distract her and makes his own way through the knee-high grass.

He crouches down by the first body he comes to, lying on his side with his sword still in hand. The sword is slick with blood; they fought back, and fought hard. The wounds on the body have not been made by tooth or claw, but by a blade, swung with force but no skill. The plate armour had done its job well, barely even dented, but the gambeson underneath it not so much, hacked roughly through wherever it was exposed and leaving ugly gashes across the flesh. The body is free of arrows, but there are many littering the long grass around it, stuck in blood-spattered shields, their white fletchings stained red and ruffling in the wind; not crossbow bolts, but the standard arrows used with a longbow. Beneath the coppery blood-tang he can smell the sugar and hoof oil that bind the fletchings. Yanking one from the ground, he finds not a plate cutting tip but a typical broad head. It wouldn’t stand a chance at damaging the Redanian armour; in fact, this arrow must have missed entirely, for if it had struck the armour it would have splintered. Not a military attack, then – military archers, in Geralt’s experience, carry mostly plate cutting and needle bodkin tipped arrows. Bandits, then, but not long in the game, or simply not experienced. All the experienced bands he’s run across prefer small hand crossbows, quick to learn and easy to conceal.

Whatever they were here to steal, he sees no evidence of it – no upturned cart or empty chests or sacks. He rifles through the leather pouches on the guard in the hopes of finding perhaps some letter or insignia to clue him in, but finds only a tinderbox and a flask of Viziman Champion, half empty. He’ll perhaps have more luck with whatever noble they were escorting.

He sees the lute first. Would recognise it anywhere, that beautiful, infernal thing. Knows all of its quirks and scars; the chips from the crossfire at the banquet, the scent of the catgut strings, the delicate wildflower carvings from boring winter nights around a campfire, hands steady and tongue sticking out in concentration. There’s a sword lodged in it, now, just above the sound hole – a little below it, an arrow. A fair chunk is missing from the side, an ugly splintered hole. It was used to defend by hands not made for fighting, never for fighting.

For a moment, he can’t hear anything over the sound of his own blood thundering in his ears. There is a great pit that opens itself up in his stomach and plummets, he with it, and the eerie calm of Velen feels a hundred miles away. He knew this would come, one day, that he would live to see his companion’s short and fragile life come to an end, but not like this. Never like this. 

He’s supposed to die warm in his bed, in a cottage on the coast, or perhaps a great house in Oxenfurt, the revered bard ‘til the very end of his days. Die in comfort and surrounded by fineries, hands held by people he loves. Die an old, old man, a long life well lived. Not like this.

He doesn’t want to look at Jaskier.

He  _ can’t _ look at Jaskier.

But he does.

Jaskier looks…peaceful. Face lax and brow furrowed in the way it does when he’s dreaming, chasing some imagined adventure he’ll want to remember when he wakes up. He’s flat on his back, one arm tossed aside like he’s reaching for his lute; the lute case is nowhere to be seen. He was playing when they were attacked. A jaunty song, probably, to raise spirits on the journey. Joy always was his forte. He wears no doublet, only a pair of ochre coloured trousers and a prettily embroidered chemise. There’s a crow perched daintily on his wrist, tugging determinedly at one of the golden buttons there. Geralt shoos it away.

He wouldn’t have been able to look if he’d found Jaskier like the soldiers, hacked into and left to bleed, but all he sees is a wound to his temple, blood matted in his hair. It wouldn’t take much to end a man armed only with an instrument, he thinks bitterly. At least the blow would have killed him quickly. He’d barely have known a thing about it. The thought isn’t much comfort.

There’s a small trickle of blood from his mouth, so like that time long ago, years, aeons, with an argument and a djinn, and for a moment he thinks he’s wrong - that there’s internal bleeding, somewhere; in his lungs, his stomach, his throat, and that’s what took him, dead from the inside out. He kneels next to him in the crushed blossoms and places a hand on his cheek and gently, so gently, turns his head; it is a cut to his lip, blood from his nose, is all. Messy blows to his cheek. It was quick. Only –

Geralt pauses.

Beneath his hand, Jaskier’s skin is warm. The soldiers were already cold.

He holds his hand in front of Jaskier’s mouth and for a moment doesn’t dare to breathe – he feels it, then, the soft puff of air. Over the rushing of his own blood in his ears he realises he can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, had heard it all along, but its presence was so familiar that Geralt simply hadn’t noticed it, hadn't questioned it, even after so long without it.

Somehow, among a slaughter that took four trained soldiers, his reckless, infuriating, wonderful bard is alive.  _ Alive _ . He could leave him here. Would probably be sort of a kindness. Last he saw Jaskier was on that wretched mountain, the first – and last – in a long time that Geralt had spoken without thinking. He had felt Jaskier’s quiet devastation, and knows that by now it would’ve cooled and hardened into a vicious anger; if he’d learned but two things about Jaskier in their travels, it’s that the bard is quick to anger and slow to forget. He won’t want to see Geralt. It would be easy to leave him here, let him wake up alone and make his own way forward without the bitter aftertaste of their encounter. Let him wake up among bodies and blood with his shattered lute, vulnerable, _alone_ the way Geralt knows he hates.

He couldn’t ever do it. Not when Jaskier had got to him so thoroughly, worming his way under Geralt’s skin and ribs to curl warmly around his heart, nursing irritation into fondness, into friendship. Not when Jaskier’s absence had begun in his chest as a crack and widened into a chasm, closed so easily with the knowledge that his friend still drew breath. He doesn’t know how to apologise, but he knows that sparing the bard his presence isn’t the way to do it. And, even if it was, he wants to be selfish - wrap Jaskier in safety and take comfort in the knowledge that the bard,  _ his  _ bard will live to sing again, even if not for him.

He will need a healer, first. Geralt never was very medicinally minded; he can do nothing for Jaskier except wash out the wound, but he won’t do it here. Some stupid, lingering panic wants him to spirit Jaskier away from the death and the ruin, as if it’s somehow contagious. He’ll take him into the woods, instead. Jaskier always had some poetics to spout about the safety of trees, the hush of a forest. Maybe it’ll hush his temper when he claps eyes on Geralt.

Jaskier stirs a little as Geralt slips his arms under him, and by the time Geralt has him settled gently in his arms, taking care not to jostle him just in case, his eyes are open. He doesn’t seem to see Geralt. His gaze is distant, confused. Geralt shushes him when he murmurs, makes soothing nonsense noises as he trudges through the high grass that tangles at his calves, and by the time he drapes Jaskier carefully across Roach’s saddle he’s gone again, breathing soft and deep.

Geralt goes back for the lute. It’s beyond repair, any man with eyes can tell that, but it’s Jaskier’s, he’s never without it, so he imagines he’ll want it all the same. Besides – it saved his life.

He straps it to the saddle – carefully, Jaskier always did kick up a fuss if Geralt was too rough with the thing, and it’d be a shame if after surviving such an ordeal it was to fall apart now – then takes Roach by the reins and leads her slowly towards the cover of the distant trees.

He ventures far into the woods, away from the road, just in case. The trees here are densely packed and old. Few open clearings to lay a proper camp but sturdy, thick trunks to lay Jaskier against. The leaves around the roots are deep, falling eagerly in preparation for winter, and they crunch softly as Geralt sets him down. The movement has jostled him awake again, though he’s yet to reach any sort of coherency, eyelids occasionally drooping as he lazily tracks Geralt’s movements.

Geralt takes the larger of his saddlebags from Roach - who has, once again, found a patch of local flora which meets her discerning eye and which she is clearly going to eradicate with her insatiable appetite - and dumps the contents onto the floor. For all the potions he has, not one would help Jaskier. He doesn’t even carry a salve that would be of use, nor anything that would ease pain. He does, at least, have a skin full of fresh water, and a cloak he hasn’t used in an age with a sleek fur lining. It was a gift from the an Craites, last he was in Skellige, which incidentally was also the last time he used it. He tucks it carefully around Jaskier, then takes his only spare shirt, tears a few strips from it that he sets aside and balls the remaining shirt up into a poor excuse for a pillow.

Jaskier is watching him like he’s a puzzle he can’t quite solve, gaze following Geralt’s hands.

“G’ralt?” he slurs finally. It sounds as though he’d bitten his tongue, when he took a blow.

“Yeah. Yes, I’m here.”

Sorry, he wants to add.  _ I’m sorry if you don’t want to see me. I’m sorry that I can’t leave.  _ _ I’m sorry for the mountain. _

He does not say any of these things.

Jaskier’s brow furrows, his nose wrinkled up like he can’t quite parse things out. Geralt gives him a moment to process.

Eventually he says, “My head hurts.”

“I’m not surprised. You took quite the blow.” Or three.

“I’m going to be sick.”

Geralt opens his mouth to reassure him that he probably won’t, but Jaskier beats him to it, twisting sideways to free himself from the cloak. Geralt reaches out to support him as he leans over and heaves miserably, shoulders trembling. They’re bonier than Geralt remembers. Thinner. Geralt rubs his back for a moment, slow, soothing strokes, then plucks Jaskier from the ground once again, moving him away from the acrid smell and mess, replacing the cloak and shirt-pillow with gentle fastidiousness. He may be fussing, but he will absolutely deny it if asked.

Jaskier’s eyes have cleared, at least, gaze lucid, but he seems just as unsteady. A strong breeze would knock him down in an instant. 

“I told you I was going to be sick,” he says imperiously.

Geralt holds his hands up in surrender. “And I never argued with you.”

“You were going to,” Jaskier insists, “you had that look, I understand that look.”

“You don’t understand shit, bard,” he deadpans, but it’s light, an olive branch of gentle humour.

“I understand! I became very well versed in your looks, since it appears to be your primary method of communication,” Jaskier huffs.

“Hm. How are you feeling? Are you cold?”

“My head hurts.”

Geralt frowns. “You told me that already.”

“Right.”

He doesn’t look particularly addled but Geralt resolves to keep a close eye on him, just in case. He’s seen many a head wound in his time, and with them many a man left unable to remember what he did a mere few minutes ago. With luck, and a few days, weeks perhaps, it’ll pass.

“Will you let me wash it?”

Jaskier looks momentarily startled. “What?”

“The wound.” Geralt gestures to the gash at the side of Jaskier’s head, thankfully not bleeding any further, “Will you let me clean the wound?”

“Oh. Sure, I suppose. If you want to.”

Geralt takes the waterskin and one of the strips of cloth from his shirt, soaking it thoroughly. He could try diluting a little Swallow, using that to clean the wound, but he doesn’t know how it would affect a wound if it was used externally instead of ingested, and rules it not worth the risk.

He pours a little of the water directly onto the wound, and moves slowly, gently but firmly dabbing at the matted edges of the wound as Jaskier hisses in pain. Jaskier is starting to look uncomfortable, a little like a spooked animal; he’s almost certainly dredging up those last memories of the mountain, of the poisonous words Geralt had flung out with nary a care. If he wants him to go, Geralt promises himself, he’ll grant him the solitude, but not until his wounds are cleaned, at least.

“Are you -?” No, a stupid question. “You’re angry with me.”

Jaskier sighs, long and low. “I am. I’ll get over it.”

“You shouldn’t.” Geralt takes his chin carefully in his hand, like he’s made of something precious and fragile, and starts dabbing away the blood there. “I was – I was a pig. I lashed out. I was only lashing out.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, Geralt.”

“I never meant it.”

“I _know_.” Geralt can tell he’s losing patience; irritability is not a look that suits him, “But that doesn’t mean it was okay for you to do it. It still hurt.”  He sighs again, softer now. “Maybe that’s more the way of it. Not angry, just hurt. I’ve been hurt before. It will pass.”

Geralt moves to cleaning the crusted blood from his nose. “Will we-?” Geralt pauses, starts again, “I’ll find a way to earn your forgiveness.”

“You were going to ask if we’d be okay, weren’t you?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, then winces; he clearly very much regrets the action with his aching head, “You stupid arse. I do forgive you, you know. We’re friends. Friends fight. You fight, you apologise, you move on. You’re here now, saving me once again, and I’m sure going out of your way to do it. Rest assured, the hurt is already lessening. Well, not physically.” 

He does look as if his head hurts more and more as time progresses, and Geralt’s certain his ministrations have done nothing to ease it no matter how gentle he tried to be. 

“Do you not have anything at all in your little bag of wonders that you’d share with your dearest friend? Something alcoholic? Some of that famous Rivian Kriek, perhaps, or a little Est Est?”

Geralt snorts.

“Yes, and you can’t have it. You don’t need booze on top of a head injury, that much I do know.”

“ _Cretin_.”

“I saved your damned lute,” he huffs.

Jaskier brightens immediately, “You did? Ah, Geralt, you see! Thoroughly forgiven!”

Geralt hums. “Maybe don’t forgive me just yet. I saved what was left of your lute. Here, sip it, or you’ll hurl again.”

He hands Jaskier the waterskin, then when the bard’s hand trembles he supports it with his own. Jaskier gives him a weak smile. The trembling will pass soon, he’s sure.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Jaskier’s expression darkens, and he splutters furiously around the water skin, ripping it away to wipe at his mouth with his sleeve. “Valdo fucking Marx is what happened! Set his new band of thugs after us, and didn’t even have the decency to be there himself, the bastard coward!”

Ah, yes. The troubadour that Jaskier hates so. Geralt is very familiar with all the man’s faults, has spent many an evening listening to Jaskier spit vitriol and picked up several creative insults along the way.

“He wouldn’t be that stupid.”

Jaskier snorts, insulted. 

“I have told you, _at length_ , of his stupidity! Did you listen to not a word of it?”

“Fine. He wouldn’t be that brazen.”

“Oh, but he would! For who would challenge a man with his own little hoard of sell swords at his back? Who would be able to stop them? I’m thankful now for the escort the dear Lady Vegelbud sent me forth from Novigrad with, even if they couldn’t manage to protect my charming face, irreplaceable asset that it is. Small price, I suppose.” His tone is light, jesting, but Geralt can see he’s lingering on the edge of a question he already knows the answer to but isn’t sure if he’s ready to voice, “Did they…?”

“They’re dead,” he says gently.

“Ah.” Jaskier fiddles with the edge of the cloak, like he’s looking for a loose thread to pull on.  “They were good men. Kind, high spirited. Brave fighters.”

Geralt puts his hand on top of Jaskier’s, stilling his fidgeting, and doesn’t let go.

“I think that may have been what saved you. They went down fighting, and fighting hard. Probably distracted from your presence sufficiently enough that by the time Marx’s men remembered you they assumed you were dead. Should’ve checked. Fucking amateurs.”

That draws a smile from Jaskier, momentarily radiant, before it drops again to something thoughtful.

“Unless they weren’t aiming to kill me? Only to scare me off, perhaps?”

“No,” Geralt says immediately, “I know how you people work.”

Jaskier splutters indignantly, cheeks colouring, “‘ _ You people _ ’?!”

_ “ _ Yes, you  people. Bards, troubadours, poets, whatever. Your reputation is everything, gods know you made sure to drill that into me. He wouldn’t risk his hind by leaving a witness.”

He doesn’t seem to be listening to whatever logic is in Geralt’s statement, too busy being far too offended.

“How dare you lump me in with the likes of that scoundrel! I can assure you the two of us are at entirely opposite ends of whatever social spectrum it is we find ourselves on. I never. ‘You people’ indeed!”

Geralt heaves a great sigh, rolls his eyes. This man will drive him to an early grave with his theatrics, and Geralt has _missed_ it.

“Fine. Valdo Marx is a lesser being than even the pox that ravages the far south, nothing more than a beast and a cur, and you are the greatest and fairest of bards to ever grace these lands… Better?”

“Oh yes, much. I do, however, think I’m going to be sick again,” he says matter-of-factly.

Geralt grimaces – the smell really is too harsh on his sensitive nose.  “Do _not_.” 

He moves to fasten the cloak around Jaskier properly, then stands, offering a hand to help the bard, _his_ bard, his gloriously alive bard, to his feet. 

“You need to be looked over by a healer. We’re a half day’s ride from the Inn at the Crossroads. I know of an herbalist who recently took up in one of the cottages there. He owes me a favour.”

“A half day’s _ride_ , eh?” Jaskier struggles to his feet, a mischievous grin tugging at his bruised mouth, “Does this mean I get to ride Roach?”

Geralt doesn’t mention the clumsiness of his steps, the fact he’s leaning heavily on Geralt’s arm, wouldn’t be upright without it; just acts like Jaskier’s finally won the ever-ongoing argument of whether or not he gets to touch Roach. 

For show, he gives a long-suffering sigh, “Yes, Jaskier. You get to ride the horse.”

“Aha! I am once again honoured to find myself graced with the company of the most noble and finest of all the ladies in the land! I have so missed our talks. Has she missed me?”

“She missed the treats you gave her when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“That means yes,” he says smugly as Geralt helps him into the saddle.

It’s only as they ride off that he realises he left half his pack strewn about the forest floor.  _ Fuck _ .

It is nearly sundown when they reach the inn – Geralt rode gently, just in case, Jaskier slumped against his front. The lamps outside have been recently lit, and there’s chatter drifting from the open door. He’ll get a room first, he decides, some food if Jaskier can stomach it, then summon the healer and hopes he’ll forgive the lateness of the hour.

Jaskier crumples a little as he slides from the saddle, legs still shaky, and he laughs as he tumbles into Geralt, weak but bright.

“Do I have to carry you?”

“I don’t weigh anything to you, do I?”

“Not a damn thing.”

Jaskier laughs again, and lets Geralt guide him, stumbling, over to the door. When they cross the threshold he stops suddenly, and nearly falls again.

There’s a bard by the fire, peacocking. The blue he’s chosen for his outfit is garish, cut in a style that Geralt knows for a fact is two years out of fashion, because he remembers Jaskier’s relief when it went out of style. There’s a hat on his head, perched at an angle too severe to be called jaunty, and the ridiculous feather falls in front of his eyes as he gestures with his head, over-the-top and overwhelming. Still, a small crowd is gathered around him, and he gestures to them with his tankard, sloshing ale over the sides.

“Tonight, we mourn!” he announces, sounding the exact opposite of a man in mourning for anything, “We lost one of our own this fair day, not a talented bard, nor one of any consideration, but a bard all the same. Let us raise our glasses to Jaskier, for few else will remember him, and I shall spare him a song in my great repertoire tonight!”

He glances to the door, then, and _pales_.

Jaskier looks a sight, for certain. Despite Geralt’s gentle care his wound is still a fright, nasty and open and raw, and somewhere along the way his lip had begun to bleed again. He is unsteady on his feet, barely able to take two steps, still trembling and likely to empty his stomach again at the slightest provocation.

That doesn’t stop him from marching over to Valdo _fucking_ Marx and punching him square in his stupid, murderous face.

It is in this moment that Geralt falls in love, fast and hard and all at once.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> And then Jaskier probably passed out, because don’t go around punching people when you have a concussion, kids!
> 
> So this is based on [this wonderful art by feelfeli](https://feelfeli.tumblr.com/post/190967574647/lord-have-mercy-on-me-all-i-wanted-all-i-wanted?fbclid=IwAR2FbByTA8XK1JUtEcMtSc2EAwcEVzvWI2rZkrMeFR7bxt7QoKWoU_qUZrc) and once I’d gotten over that moment of fucking ouch my brain went ‘but what would Jaskier be doing on a battlefield?’ and then ‘but what if it’s not a battlefield?’ and for some reason followed that up with ‘Valdo fucking Marx’, so here we are.
> 
> Many, many thanks to the wonderful Feainn for betaing!


End file.
